“Be'trice, dis hopper is awf-lly wilted!” came a sepulchral whisper from Dorman.
Keith sighed, and went and baited the hook again. When he returned to Beatrice, his mood had changed.
“I want you to promise—”
“I never make promises of any sort, Mr. Cameron.” Beatrice had fallen back upon her airy tone, which was her strongest weapon of defense—unless one except her liquid-air smile.
“I wasn't thinking of asking much,” Keith went on coolly. “I only wanted to ask you not to worry about that leasing business.”
“Are you worrying about it, Mr. Cameron?”
“That isn't the point. No, I can't say I expect to lose sleep over it. I hope you will dismiss anything I may have said from your mind.”
“But I don't understand. I feel that you blame Sir Redmond, when I'm sure he—”
“I did not say I blamed anybody. I think we'll not discuss it.”
“Yes, I think we shall. You'll tell me all about it, if I want to know.” Beatrice adopted her coaxing tone, which never had failed her.